


an object of scorn

by Netya



Series: sweet corn drabbles [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Corn - Freeform, Ginger root - freeform, Inappropriate Use of Vegetables, M/M, Other, Rating May Change, Title Contains Pun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-10 03:11:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16462247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Netya/pseuds/Netya
Summary: I am literally begging you not to read this





	1. Chapter 1

“Eren?” Armin looks stricken, stock-still in the doorway with a book in his hand. “What are you doing?”

Eren fish-mouths at him, frantically trying to think of an excuse, a reason, anything that would justify his snooping – but it’s no use. The confusion in Armin’s eyes turns to dawning horror, and Eren puts his arms up slowly, extracting his guilty hand from the desk as carefully as possible.

“’Min,” he soothes, fingers tightening around the coarse ridges of the object in his hand, “I promise, there’s a reason for this. I heard from Jean that you were – preoccupied, at night, lately, and I wanted to know what could possibly have taken your attention away from our nightly walks –“

At this, Armin blushes furiously, and he abruptly drops his book to stalk over to Eren’s side, slapping him away from the desk and growling when Eren refuses to let go of his prize. “Eren, this isn’t funny, give it back, I’m going to flay Jean alive –“

“Armin, please,” Eren pleads, holding it above Armin’s head while he avoids his various strikes and punches. “It’s unhealthy, even for you, you’re spending far too much time being –“

“Being what, exactly?!” Armin spits, now resorting to clawing at the fabric of Eren’s coat to get him to lower his arm. “I _have not_ , I’m perfectly up to date with all of our battle plans, there’s nothing better for me to be doing in the evenings anyways and what I do on my own time is up to me and none of your business –“

“Armin,” Eren says firmly, injecting every ounce of authority he can into his voice. Armin huffs, but relents, stepping back and crossing his arms with an expectant expression. 

Eren cautiously lowers his hand, turning the object over in his palm. It’s fresh, average in size, ripe and golden from the fall harvest; neatly trimmed strands of plant matter tickle his wrist at the base, the tips that brush against his skin sticky with latent residue. 

“Eren,” Armin says flatly, scowling. “Give me back my corn.”


	2. Scorndalous!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eren gets his hands dirty. Jean mourns.

“…not to mention it’s _unsafe, and,_ ” Eren lectures, pointing the corn at him like it’s a pointing stick. 

Armin throws his hands in the air, rolling his eyes as Eren reaches back with his free hand, opening the draw of Armin’s desk backwards, “ - and you’re wasting precious supplies, ‘Min, really.” 

Armin’s mouth drops open at the implication, and he gasps indignantly. “Do you really think I’d be that careless, that's _machine oil_ –“ 

“Oh?” Eren raises his eyebrows, wiggling the small bottle of 3DMG oil, half-gone, in Armin’s face. “Why is this so far down, then? I know you got more yesterday, and you weren’t nearly out then.” 

Armin opens his mouth to respond, flushing, ready to curse him out instead of provide an actual excuse because he doesn’t have one. He’s stopped, however, by the smirk on Eren’s face as he digs his fingers back into the drawer – and extracts a second vial, messily corked, the bitter tang of almonds tainting the air.

“I’m certain you don’t use _this_ for your gear,” Eren murmurs, voice low, and takes a step forwards, backing Armin up against the end of the bed. Armin averts his eyes, cheeks flushing bright, glancing at the corn Eren still holds aloft in his other hand.

“It’s disgraceful, you know,” Eren continues, casually nudging Armin’s legs apart with his foot. “Skipping dinner, forgetting about Mikasa and I, coming to training reeking of sweat and oil…” 

Armin inhales, knuckles turning white where they grip the end of the bedpost. 

“But the worst thing,” Eren says slowly, sliding hand around the back of Armin’s neck, cupping the exposed skin beneath his ponytail. “The worse thing is that you’re wasting all the time…” He brings their heads closer, ghosting the words over Armin’s lips. “…you could be spending on my cock, instead.”

The words drip down Armin’s throat, thick and sticky like molasses, and he chokes down a moan. “I – It’s not enough,” he whines, arousal making his voice pathetically weak. “I – I need more, Eren, from – from you or –“ 

Eren hushes him gently, bites teasingly at Armin’s lower lip until he parts his mouth and Eren slips his tongue inside. 

“Oh, please, Eren,” Armin whimpers, shuddering when Eren slips sticky fingers under his waistband, eases his trousers down so he can better tease at Armin’s hole with – with –

Armin jolts, clapping a hand over his mouth in shock. “Eren – ah!” 

Eren smiles, the slippery head of corn pushed an inch deep. He revels in the muffled gasp it elicits, the sudden hot red on Armin’s pretty cheeks, and twists the sharp head of the shank viciously. “Is it enough, Armin?” 

“N – no! Eren! Ah!” 

Eren thrusts, and Armin’s legs give out. He collapses to the mattress, thighs sticky and spread, and Eren climbs atop him with a sadistic grin.

*  
  
Jean stares dumbly at the table in the mess hall, chanting a litany of well-versed expedition tactics under his breath. He’s so absorbed that he doesn’t notice Mikasa plopping down next to him, unusually graceless as she taps her fingers on the tankard she pushes in his direction, over-steeped tea slopping over the edge and onto Jean’s elbow. 

“ _Shit_ , what the – oh, hey, Mikasa.” He glances at her, dully acknowledging the lack of scarf around her neck. “What’s…”

“Thought you deserved compensation. There’s whisky,” she nods towards tankard, elbows sliding down until her chin’s propped on the table. 

Jean winces. He knows they use her room sometimes – she’s just as sick of it as he is. 

“Want to come to my room,” she asks, “I have a bottle.” 

Jean blinks at her. In any other situation he’d be freaking out (only _mildly)_ , stammering like an idiot, triple checking to see there’s no sweat stains and he doesn’t smell like horse.

As it is, though, they’re just going to drown their sorrows. After the past month of harvest he’s about as unaroused as he ever will be.

“…yeah, okay,” he says, and pushes back, wearily lifting the tankard to his lips and downing the rest of it. He coughs, the concentration of whisky thicker at the bottom, and Mikasa pats his back as she brushes past him. 

“If you think that burns,” she starts, her usually monotonous tone taking on a suggestive lilt. “You should try putting ginger root up your ass.” 

Jean drops the tankard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know that little nub of stalk that's at the top of a corncob? That's the shank. Just so y'all don't think he's, like, stabbing him or something, which to be fair is probably something they've experimented with in this cursed au
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading <3

**Author's Note:**

> for @peachymess and the rest of the eremin cornheads. I hope you feel better, peachy! the maize of life is difficult to navigate, but you're still the cream of the crop ( ˘ ³˘)♥ ~ 
> 
> and before y'all ask, yes, the next installment is porn.  
> ...I just have to reflect on how it came to this for a little while.


End file.
